Heartaches

My Heart, pencil and ink, 2005

My father is scheduled for a procedure this morning. His aortic valve is deteriorating rapidly, and he needs a replacement valve. In my dream last night, all that was needed was a simple cut that involved a pig heart. In my dream, it was over in seconds. In real time, the night and morning have dragged on with lead feet. I slept fitfully and woke up every hour to check the clock. Was it time for his surgery yet?

Today is minor. It's only a cardioangiogram.  They want to check the extent of the damage. The major catastrophe will be when his thoratic surgeon gets off his ... intentions ... and does the hard part: The Replacement. But Dad is in such bad shape, we were afraid they might decide to do the surgery today, based on the results of the angiogram. As far as I know, that is still a possibility. And of course there's always the possibility he'll have a heart attack during one or both surgeries.

Everywhere I go in my head, the psychoses speak of great loss. I get into a delusional state where I lose it all. Everything. Then I cry until there's nothing left of me but a sack of skin and a pervasive sense of worry. When two and two go together, they make a picture that is typical of schizophrenia. Stress breeds psychosis.

Sigh.

UPDATE: Dad did well during his angiogram and is now at home, relaxing. The doctors said he has some time before he needs to schedule his valve replacement, which means Mom will have time to get him to Tuscon, where they have a heart institute. Phew!

Hippo Birdie!!

It's my Birthday! I'M A PRINCESS TODAY! (kinda)

Whew! What a day!
My mother and sister surprised me today with carrot cake and presents. They came under the guise of "having coffee." To top off all the surprises, my nephew launched into the disturbing.

Gifts! Yay!

Because of my exhaustion and constant state of mental confusion, I don't remember all the details. But part of my nephew's gift to me was worry. He loved and pet the dog as he excitedly told me a long story about a pyramid he built with people inside it, and a secret potion he made that he takes at night while everyone is sleeping that makes the whole thing the size of a house. While this sounds like a typical, little-kid imagination, I should point out that my nephew is ten years old. He gave this story to all of us with a straight face, insisting it was all real. My sister asked if this all happens in his imagination a few times during his pauses for breath, and by the fourth question, he snapped.
"It's true!" He said with exasperation. Then his eyes widened and he told us he saw a shadow go across my living room wall, that looked "dark, like really dark." He compared this "shadow" to the devil, though in his young fear, he can't bring himself to say the word "devil." Instead, he said "Mr. Pickles." (I was quietly informed that "Mr. Pickles" was the only way my nephew can refer to the much-talked-about devil of his childhood imagination.)
A long silence followed.
My sister and I exchanged looks. How could I give her the "uh-oh, this is what we've feared" signal without scaring the kid?
I said to him, "Sometimes you remind me of me." He beamed his bright smile, and my sister's eyes became haunted. I could only guess at what memories of me as a child she was conjuring behind her hazel irises.

Later, a talk with my mother revealed my nephew is being scheduled for a psychological assessment in September. Apparently, these sudden bursts of outlandish imaginings are becoming more frequent, and are the source of relentless bullying at school. Everyone left with hugs and a silent acceptance. And so with a sigh, I tally up the day:

Birthday Gifts:
From Mom: a camera.
From Sister: a Yoda alarm clock.
From Niece: a card.
From Nephew: regrets, reminders, worry and love.

Unedited

Ahhhh.
The end of the day, at last! Finally, when all the world around me goes to sleep, I am left to my own vices and devices. This is the time for quiet contemplation, rest, and writing.

I've been agitated today. I woke up at 6.30am, as per usual, and found that, while it was sweet that Bryan wanted to paint with me last night, it was a stressor waiting to happen. As I stumbled into the library hoping to see my first watercolour of Tyoma with new enough eyes to fix whatever might have gone wrong last night, I saw:
Bryan had left his (my) watercolour brushes in the water overnight. And, the cap of my pointilism pen was off, thus rendering it useless for more than trash. I sat about in silent consternation for most of the day. I usually don't give much attention to material things; for me, form follows function. But for some odd reason, it is a different matter with my art supplies. They are more valuable to me than a thousand perfect emeralds ... more even than that Orb of Henry VIII's I saw when I visited the Crown Jewels in London. Replaceable? Yes. But still I felt a burr in my side whenever Bryan asked me for anything today.
I was out of it most of the day. I silently warred with The People (as I often do when upset), and doodled angrily while Bryan did his best to be accommodating and giving.
He did the dishes.
He vacuumed.
He burned incense.
He let me blast my music while I took on yet another portrait.
And still it has been a long day.

I guess I need to remember that, for those of us with mental illnesses, even doing nothing all day can invite stress. Even having the most wonderful boyfriend ever (like I do) can wig us out. At least in my delusions, I can predict how I'm going to react.

Part Two

This is another picture of an amazing little boy named Tyoma.

Tyoma #2, watercolour 2011

Here's hoping that world shows him wonder and light.

For Lori (or: A Good Part of the Evening Spent)

Gorgeous Tyoma, watercolour 2011

From My Perspective

Poetry Collage, 2011

Society is trauma. It is a consensus of ethical disfigurements. In order to become a part of it, I've been told to remove my shoes at the airport and take my medication at a certain time. This leaves out the miles of neurons that contraindicate the process of my inclusion. The caliber of arrogance required to normalize a dissident population is enormous. I didn't believe in God until I met a CEO of pharmaceuticals. I didn't believe in religion until I bowed to a chemical reaction that slowed my movements to those of prayer. I've spent a lifetime trying to evade these labels, these arguments on boundaries, these road maps that exclude all others. I didn't want to write down a particular worldview as my vision is not omniscient and therefore blemishes some deeds, rewarding others. There is no sphere that contains me raw, uncooked, fat bristling at my edges, and pumping pure blood through a tapestry of vein. The meat of me is unequivocal. I make no auditions for a master in my sleep. I am boundless and uncontainable.

Treatment Resistant

were the words that came out of my pshrink's mouth two weeks ago.

Artwork by Erskin L. Cherry/ erskin@eldrich.org

 He is the third in a string of doctors who have used this phrase to describe me. So, in contravention to what is usually called "good practice", I have been placed on three anti-psychotics all at once. The good news: they are working well together. The world is quiet, content, and hopeful. The People In My Head are so worn out and faded they seem to be a pair of old jeans that no longer fit (though I still try them on every once in awhile). But, in this circle of mindfulness they are much too big. My universe has contracted to include only me, and a pocketful of reality. Against all predictions and doubts, it is enough.

There is no flat affect. There is no boredom without The Great Circus. There is only reading, writing, watching movies, and keeping house. Well, there is also Bryan, but he is so amazingly supportive and caring that I couldn't possibly shove him out of this small space I've created for my life. It is now a very happy place. I've come to question the phrase "treatment resistant."

By the way, a huge thank you to Erskin L. Cherry for his wonderful depiction of what it feels like inside my brain. All credits and kudos go to him for his incredible piece of art. 

I am not confident

I am not confident about this execution, but my desire to give history back to its own curvature has grown exponentially, and has therefore superceded any need for silence. A friend once told me to keep the good things in my life close to me, and I used to toast my drinks to keeping what I know to myself. This though, this rag doll of what will be me someday, this is what I want as far from me as possible. So in my mind I have created a future and a past in which she will live. I didn't always know that every moment exists outside of time. Linear constructs used to be my religion, and the numeric rituals of math and history were my best subjects in school. That was before she came and set me straight with the - then mystical - suggestion that eternity didn't know graphs or lines; that when all things were considered, all anybody has is right here, right now. This was how I came to absorb the idea, in a visceral way, that forever was never a long time. Like her, forever had nothing to do with the endless ticking of minutes we all imagine. None of forever has anything at all to do with time. It simply is - unconcernedly, unobtrusively, and mostly unnoticed. And before you can think it or grasp it, it's gone. That's how I met her, when my naive uncertainty of forever collapsed. "You are not who you think you are," she informed me with that quirky arrangement of eyebrows we both possessed. I was struck by this, as much as I was surprised someone almost identical to me could be so separate. It was obvious who she was, but less obvious who she might think she was. She was my equal in height, with the same haunted brown eyes and turned down mouth. It was almost exactly like looking into a mirror, except that the mirror was tinted by age, wrinkled around the eyes, slightly stooped over, and gone slightly to fat. I asked the inevitable: "Are you who I will become?" Time had turned over in its sleep and folded its arms to touch its toes. Benignly she smiled. Seeing my own smile in third person was disarming. She nodded, accusing me of the wreck she was in front of me. There was a grief then, hers for me and mine for myself. I knew immediately, with that same grim certainty with which a thief eyes the gallows that I was doomed to follow the scarred footprints in her Salvation Army shoes. I would go with what I'd always imagined was my own design, but would end a ruin, a regret, a ghost. I would walk behind her in the eternal moment, making decisions I will believe are choices and end my forever being alone, misunderstood, and different.